@babydxhl Sorry Not Sorry

@babydxhl sorry not sorry 🤷

Even in a city full of psychopaths, Anne somehow manages to stand out. At least right now there’s a fair reason for it: no one sits or idles at her booth, despite the place being jam-packed. And it’s not because of the blood or the broken glass, but because of the way Anne had calmly reached up and smashed a man’s face into the table, causing the blood and the broken glass. His weak moans have long since faded, having been dragged out halfway to unconsciousness by the security Anne’s surprised to learn is actually here.

The problem with standing out is that she isn’t supposed to do that yet. Her job was to work her way inside of the Iceberg Lounge, scope the place out, and find a new friend for Jack. Someone suitable to their cause—tough, unfucked with, and looking to raise a little hell. Jack’s exact words had been to find “the craziest, best-known psycho in town” and arrange a meeting for him. Anne…was reconsidering things now. Quite a lot of things. Including Jack.

She’s knows the feeling of eyes on her because they so seldom are. Even when she’d been dolling out the what-for for the fuck-nut who’d copped a feel, people hadn’t looked; acts of violence were common here, even if the woman engaging in them was not. (Truthfully, she had been mistaken for another femme fatale altogether from the back, and so most people looked pointedly anywhere else to avoid the ire of the woman she wasn’t.)

Anne looks up and meets those eyes head-on, her expression dispassionate and uninterested, though her look becomes somewhat pinched at the brow as she takes a look—a real look—at the person staring back her.

Christ Almighty, but Gotham takes ‘em young! She takes another swig directly from the whisky bottle before thumping it back down on the table.

“I’d offer ye a glass, but half of it’s stuck in some arsehole’s face. Aren’t ye a bit young t’be fuckin about in a place like this?”

On a strange, grey beach overlooking a strange, grey sea, a goddess and a pirate discuss their loves. It feels like the set up to some strange, off-putting ballad about giving oneself to the sea, but it’s Anne’s reality, unsettling as it is.

From beneath the sage blouse—the hell?, she never wears this damned thing!—Anne clutches at the rings hovering in the shallow valley of her chest. Two plain gold bands and a heavy signet ring strung through a leather cord, always present thought seldom seen. She grips the cord tightly, afraid of this place and aware that some magic as strange and grey as the beach and the sea are keeping that dear at arm’s length from her. It is an unsettling thing to witness one’s panic from the outside.

“I’ve never had to wait long,” Anne replies, having never lived a lover’s tale that stayed happy past ten months. She knows, somehow, that she’ll never get to live a lover’s tale lasting longer than that now. She knows it the same way she knows the woman next to her is a goddess, the same way she knows she isn’t supposed to be here. Anne’s coat is gone. Why is her fucking coat gone? She looks over at the goddess, still unable to do more than reach for her panic. “Have you?”

"Every lover's story always ends in tragedy, if you wait long enough." If the observation seems bleak, that isn't without reason; Sigyn speaks from (painful, awful) experience. She knows better than most that the cruelty of time reaches everyone, eventually.

lyric starter for @neverhangd You Know Me Too Well - Nothing But Thieves

Getting to these soon!

I’m gonna try real hard to do some writing tomorrow. Please like so I know it’s okay to @ you in things and/or throw things in your askbox!

I’m working past my anxiety but having a like would be very useful!

This also applies to @wineworshipped | @voiceshaunted .

RULES  -  Choose  4  of  your  favorite  characters  from  4  pieces  of  media  as  options  and  let  your  Tumblr  pals  decide  which  one  most  suits  your  vibe.

@starlightintheirwake ⚓️

Anne sat with her back to the damp rock wall of the grotto, her boots pressed against a different, smaller rock lodged in place at the edge of the water. The grotto smelled of wet and wood, a sort of mildew not entirely unpleasant to smell but certainly not a place to spend hours in, like she was now. Lost. Looking through the water not to its dark depths but to a time long past. The bottle she nursed has long since slipped through her fingers, much emptier now than when it had entered the grotto.

She didn’t stir even when her privacy was intruded upon, though she heard the rattle of the bottle moving on their entrance. (If she laid down here and died, would anyone even notice?)

“Fuck off, I’m busy.”

I’m gonna try real hard to do some writing tomorrow. Please like so I know it’s okay to @ you in things and/or throw things in your askbox!

I’m working past my anxiety but having a like would be very useful!

This also applies to @wineworshipped | @voiceshaunted .